


Fyrsta.

by Deducingsocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5673358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deducingsocks/pseuds/Deducingsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the wedding Sherlock is struggling with the ever increasing loudness of his thoughts now that John isn't there to silence them. Coming down from a high his depression begins to smother him and thoughts leak out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fyrsta.

**Author's Note:**

> *Takes place after A Sign Of Three and before His Last Vow. Heavily influenced by The Abdominal Bride.*

_"There is a variety of sadness that makes it's home in your guts and never quite leaves."_

Even with his eyes shut and his body curled into a fetal position the feeling of despair and emptiness continued to coil it's way around his body and down into his bones. Warmth didn't stop it, his poor imitation of another's touch didn't sooth it, and any good memories he had of _before_ only made him feel more like he were drowning.

_Drowning._ Drowning in what?

In feelings of misery, self loathing, loneliness; the mortifying and miserable list continued for ten pages or more. He couldn't stop the thoughts from interrupting his oh-so-logical mind. His big brain and even bigger ego were no good to him this time.

Black moods they were called, this was simply another of his black moods and he could pull through it. Couldn't he? He had done before. Hadn't he? He honestly couldn't remember. Those years on the run had kept him too busy to even consider his own crippling depression and bitter self loathing. There was no time for self pity; there was barely time to breathe.

Breathing. It hurt when he inhaled, like he were covered in tar and it were seeping into his trachea, down into his lungs and wrapping around his very alveoli, preventing him from getting the oxygen he so desperately needed. More realistically he felt as if he were suffocating in a dark room, void of all light and sound except for the low thump of his heart and the high ' _eeeeeeee'_ in his ears. What was it he had heard once? That the soft ' _eeeeeee_ 'you ears is the sound of brain cells dying? Maybe it was, maybe all his brain cells were dripping away. But he knew better, he knew it was the high pitched squeak of his nervous system chugging away below his flesh. If nothing else it was an indication that he was here, he was alive; it was real.

He couldn't remember ever feeling like this before. He can't remember losing all willingness to partake in life, like both his heart and brain were breaking all at once and he had no desire to do anything to stop it.

Sub-consciously he knew he was coming down, and he was coming down hard. It was easy not to feel or think when you were sober, it was easy to push every thing and everyone away. He was just transport and his mind was just a hard drive, no need for emotions or feelings. He got on just fine. But then things changed. John left and things got louder and louder until getting high was the only way to silence.

And get high he did.

He slowly sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Everything beyond his bedroom door was alien. The chair was gone, he had made sure of that, but ever since he was unable to sit in the living room without feeling a burning in his throat. By default he could sit no where as everything lead back to that living room, to that spot where _that chair_ once was; were that  _person_ once sat.

His chest tightened at the thought but he held on. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed, his sad and lonely little bed, for what seemed like a life time before he plucked up the courage to stand.

His balance wavered slightly. It had been a good few hours since he had last used his legs, and the dose of cocaine he had administered had left him feeling woozy.

He switched on the light by his bed side and hissed as it burned his eyes.

_Light sensitivity; noted._

From across the room his reflection in the mirror screamed at him. It screamed so many variables that it was hard for him to pick out one.

_Junkie. Addict. Shit. Scum. Disappointment. Forgettable. Lonely. Sad. Over. Infectious._

_**Freak.** _

Sally Donovan's voice rang in his mind. He hadn't heard that word in so long , the first time it barely registered, but now it was different; now he believed it.

Looking back at the mirror he felt like a ghost, like an actor even. An actor playing a role wherein he had to keep his composure and mannerisms lest he be shamed. And for the life of him he couldn't understand why. It all seemed so unappealing and fruitless. Why did he have to do any of this? What was his goal other than to insult and drive away as many people as physically possible?  Who died and made him the smartest man in London?

His breath hitched at the last thought. No one had. The smartest man in London was very much alive, possibly watching him at this very second and expecting a finely detailed list of every dose and every toxin he had pumped into his body.

_He_ , the man staring back at him from the mirror, was not the smartest man in London. He was not the smartest man any where. What smart man allowed himself to sink so low into his own petty self hatred that, instead of pulling himself out or asking for help, he continued to sit in it? 

A smart man would have cried for help by now. A smart man would have picked himself up and moved on. A smart man wouldn't lock himself in a dark room with nothing more than a few ounces of cocaine, a needle and his memories.

The tusamni of despair caught his chest again and he could feel his throat grow raw. His eyes brimmed with tears that would never grace his cheeks as he fumbled for his kit. For a moment he hesitated as he lifted out his needle, he cursed himself and every other bastard that had gotten him here. He was the prisoner and the jailer both and by God he would make himself feel it. He knew there was no stopping what came next but in his mind he threw every slur he knew at himself, hoping it would some how make him stop.

It wouldn't.

As he boiled out his solution and drew back the piston he made a mental note to add it to his list.


End file.
